


bite the hand

by srednia



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Character Study, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Getting Together, M/M, Miya Atsumu Needs a Hug, Miya Osamu is a Good Brother, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Time Skip, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29499039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srednia/pseuds/srednia
Summary: The first time Atsumu touches him it’s an honest mistake. Sakusa hits his first ever set with a sound so sharp and clean that a hot prick of pride blooms in the centre of his chest, below his sternum and just right of his heart. It feels so overwhelminglygoodto have Sakusa on his side that he doesn’t even think twice about smacking him firmly between the shoulder blades in the afterglow.When hisNice kill, Omi-Omi!is met with a hiss and a full body flinch, guilt flares in the pit of his stomach. It’s barely noticeable, but he should have known — he’s been watching him for years.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 27
Kudos: 330





	1. i can't touch you

**Author's Note:**

> cw: minor mentions of blood in the context of skin/cuticle picking, lip biting, etc. it's not graphic, but it is reoccurring.
> 
> title and inspiration from 'bite the hand' by boygenius
> 
> this ended up being a lot more miya-twins centric than i had expected or planned for? but their relationship really stuck with me somehow, and I really enjoyed exploring it here.

The first time Atsumu touches him it’s an honest mistake. Sakusa hits his first ever set with a sound so sharp and clean that a hot prick of pride blooms in the centre of his chest, below his sternum and just right of his heart. It feels so overwhelmingly _good_ to have Sakusa on his side that he doesn’t even think twice about smacking him firmly between the shoulder blades in the afterglow, and it cuts a cord that had been buzzing between them since they locked eyes in warm-up.

When his _Nice kill, Omi-Omi!_ is met with a hiss and a full body flinch, guilt flares in the pit of his stomach. It’s barely noticeable, but he should have known — he’s been watching him for years.

Atsumu takes pride in his ability to pay attention to other people, their strengths, their weaknesses. He holds them all to impossible standards and it’s annoying, fine, he gets that, but he feels such an intense buzzing in the core of his bones sometimes and the only way to keep it quiet is to let it out and let himself be yelled at. It’s motivating. It’s comfortable. He doesn’t really want to think about what that says about him.

They don’t talk about it and Sakusa hits his spikes without meeting his eyes and it makes Atsumu feel edgy and mean with neglect. During a water break, he watches him bend his wrists backwards with a pointedly blank look on his face to Hinata’s obvious delight, and something stutters under his skin. He throws his water bottle at Bokuto’s back.

“Hey, hit a few tosses for me.”

Bokuto whines, rubbing awkwardly at the number on his pinny. “That was mean, Tsumu!” 

Atsumu softens a bit, and hisses, “look, do you want Hinata to pass you or what? ‘Cuz I’m currently unattached and lookin’ for a new favourite hitter. I thought maybe I felt a connection there. We do have history.” He stares at the back of Sakusa’s neck as he says it and tastes the sourness on the tip of his tongue.

“AGH fine, but you owe me for this.” He points a thumb at the sore spot in the centre of his back.

Atsumu smirks and tosses the ball up high and hard into Bokuto’s palm. The hair stands up straight at the back of his neck, but when he turns around no one’s looking and Sakusa’s tying his shoe.

“Hey, Atsumu, over here!” Hinata tosses him a ball and he sets it, quick, sharp, perfect. He strikes it straight into the ground with an excited whoop. For a moment, it’s almost as if they’re back in high school, as if Osamu were there again. It sends a chill down his spine, and he closes his eyes to compose himself. _He’s not dead, idiot, he just doesn’t play volleyball anymore._ It’s not much of a reassurance.

Sakusa clears his throat, and motions for the next one. Atsumu’s head aches at the quietness of it and he wants the next one to hurt, but he floats it up sweet and sure, just how Sakusa likes it, and he hits it with only a minor hesitation and a minor twist of his mouth. He counts that as a win. 

The dressing room after that first practice is alive and heavy with excitement and his head is cracking at the seams as he tries to think about all the ways he could do better, how they could all do better. Bokuto’s been less emotional lately, but he still doesn’t know when to shut up; Hinata, too, but at least he knows how to wear him out. Meian’s already keeping them all on a tight leash, but Atsumu wants to sink his teeth into something until he tastes blood.

Sakusa is tucking his clothes neatly into the side pocket of his gym bag when Atsumu leans against his locker, a little too close, and says, “ya know it wouldn’t kill you to smile, Omi.” The expression on his face feels like a kick in the balls. 

“Is that so, Miya,” he says and stiffly slips a mask over his face. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He closes his locker door, firm and careful, pulling gently on the lock three times to double check the strength, and leaves without saying goodbye to anyone.

“What crawled up his ass and died?” Atsumu huffs and a few of his teammates laugh quietly but the air suddenly feels a lot colder. Bokuto gives him an odd look and follows Sakusa out the door. He spends the train ride home chewing at the skin of his left thumb and pushing that look to the furthest corner of his mind.

—

He still remembers the first time he saw Sakusa in a game tape. He got hot and blushy and ended up with a black eye after he kicked Osamu in the stomach for pointing it out. It was their first year and Aran laughed at them which made his bones feel sticky inside his body. 

“It’s cuz yer rotting internally.” Osamu had said through a mouthful of food when he told him about it. The fluorescent light outside the convenience store wheezed on automatically as dusk started to hit. Atsumu could usually trade snacks for extra practice, and it had been getting darker and colder earlier and his sweat was freezing and chilled against his scalp. He shivered, and kicked his brother in the shin.

“Idiot, ‘m not rotten. You’re rotten.” He was starting to get itchy again and bit hard at the inside of his lip to stop it from trembling.

Osamu raised a single eyebrow. “Good one.” He stuffed the rest of his meat-bun into his mouth before slinging his elbow around Atsumu’s neck, forcing out a pitiful squawk. He knocked their heads together and murmured, “yer only as rotten as you let the others think, Tsumu. Fuckin’ relax.”

“Get stuffed, Samu. I am fuckin’ relaxed.” Atsumu squeezed his eyes shut and let his heart settle behind his ribs. Osamu was quiet, but he didn’t move his arm until they got home. He sat next to him on the ground while they played video games, and kicked each other in the ankles and when they turned the lights off for the night, he silently slipped into Atsumu’s bed.

—

The key sticks oddly in Atsumu’s front door but it’s not enough of a problem to call someone about getting it fixed. He pushes into his apartment with his shoulder and tosses his keys into a dish beside a dying cactus. He sinks on the floor and tucks his head between his knees and clasps his hands behind his head, like Kita had shown him the first time he caught him spiralling in the change room when he thought everyone had already left already. Osamu punched him in the arm when he got back to their room late and didn’t say anything about his puffy face. 

His phone vibrates softly against his leg and he puts it on speaker.

“You good, Tsumu?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Samu. Same as always.”

Osamu hums.

“Osamu. I’m fine. I dunno why you’re calling m—”

“Got anythin’ in yer fridge?”

He frowns, and looks towards his kitchen—the single mug above his stove, the plate in the drying rack. 

“Yes,” he lies. He can hear Osamu sigh and murmur something to whoever else is there. 

“I’ll be over in a bit.”

“I told you, it’s fine.”

“Okay.”

“Dude, I swear!”

There's a beat of silence. Atsumu is about to say something bratty but Osamu mutters, “fuck you,” and hangs up.

He chucks his phone onto the floor and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes until his vision sparks and it starts to burn but there’s something loosening in his chest and he can already feel his breath quieting down. _Fucking Samu._ He pulls himself to his feet and grabs the plate from the drying rack and one from the cupboard and runs his finger along the chip in the one that gets more use.

Osamu always barges in without knocking. He kicks Atsumu in the ass until he moves out of the way, and drops the paper food bags in the middle of the island without a word. He starts arranging their plates while Atsumu pulls two canned teas from the fridge.

“See,” he grunts. “It wasn’t _empty._ ”

“How do you even face yer nutritionist?”

“Hey, what she doesn’t know won’t kill ‘er.”

“As far as you know,” he mumbles and smacks Atsumu on the back of the head.

“Ugh, Samu!”

“You need to take better care of yerself. I dunno how you ended up so fuckin’ incompetent.”

Atsumu takes a big bite of tuna and mumbles, “Don’t hurt yerself with those big words,” and ducks away from another swat.

Osamu chews and glares at him under the brim of his hat. “Whatever. Tell me about practice.”

Atsumu swallows. “So, you remember Sakusa Kiyoomi yeah? From Itachiyama?”

“You guys signed him in the offseason, right? I remember him. Fuckin’ weirdo, but he was scary good.”

Atsumu starts to feel settled in the routine. Being a twin means exposing a glaring character error in that he can never quite reach the sense of wholeness that he had playing volleyball alongside his brother in high school. He doesn’t like to think about it, bare the raw, Osamu shaped, bundle of nerves at the centre of his heart that never quite seems to heal over completely when they’re apart. Sometimes he wonders if Osamu feels it too.

They stand together at the sink afterwards, fighting about MSBY’s last game against EJP—Atsumu washes, Osamu dries—and their bickering slowly fades away into a weird, staticky silence. Osamu ducks his head and Atsumu knows he’s busting his brain thinking about something so he nudges him with his hip and raises an eyebrow.

“Ya know I’m always here for you, right?”

Atsumu scoffs. “Yeah, I fuckin’ know, Samu. Ya never leave me alone.”

Osamu flicks him with the towel. “Dumbass. Ya know what I mean.”

Atsumu chews a piece of flesh from the inside of his lip, right where it’s starting to scab. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I do.”

He stares at him, considering. “Good.” He puts the dishes back in the cupboard a few inches left of their usual spots and Atsumu smiles at the idea that there are things his brother doesn’t know about him.

Osamu gives him a long hug at the doorway and rubs his back which sets off an unsettling pressure behind his eyes. Atsumu cuts it off by pinching his side as hard as he can until he’s being strangled into a headlock.

“How are you still so deceptively ripped?” He coughs out once Osamu’s dropped him to the floor.

“I lift shit all day, moron. ‘M not some fuckin’ slug just cuz I don’t live at the gym.” He rubs at the spot that Atsumu knows is going to bruise tomorrow. He opens the door to let himself out and glares. “Go grocery shopping. I’m sendin’ ya a list. Print it out.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious Tsumu! Ya gotta feed yerself. Got it?”

“Got it, Mom.”

Osamu gives him a final once over and purses his lips. “Call me if ya need anythin’ but I’m not yer fuckin’ keeper.”

Atsumu doesn’t mention that he’s always the one who calls first and moves to close the door in his face, but it’s stopped by Osamu’s foot. He peeks his head through the crack.

“Hey. I love ya.”

“That’s so gross, Samu.”

“Say it back, ya fuckin’ scrub!”

Atsumu pushes the door against his head, and Osamu grabs his wrist and twists it hard like he used to when they were kids.

“Ow! Fine! I love you, too! Fuckin’ happy?”

Osamu drops his hand and smirks. “Gross.”

Atsumu groans and slams the door, ignoring the warm bloom in his stomach that’s already starting to dissolve. When he looks at the cactus, he notices that it’s been watered.


	2. i wouldn't if i could

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I can't hear you, you're too far away  
>  I can't see you, the light is in my face  
> I can't touch you, I wouldn't if I could_

Practice starts at 9 a.m. the next day but Atsumu always gets there early; he doesn’t sleep much and he likes it when the gym is quiet and he can hear himself think. He almost drops his water bottle when he walks onto the court and finds Sakusa sitting on the ground deep in a side splits. He’s maskless, wearing over-ear headphones and his hair is pleasantly ruffled. It looks soft and he wants to sink his fingers into it and pull. His heart is doing something weird, pumping a little too fast at the image. _Stupid,_ Atsumu thinks, and shakes his head. 

He raises his hand in a wave. “Omi!” He shouts and Sakusa visibly startles. He snaps his head up to look at him and his wide eyes slowly start to narrow as he focuses on Atsumu’s face. Atsumu smiles, the one that crinkles his eyes, and makes his way over and crouches a good distance away so they’re at eye level, but pointedly apart. 

“Whatcha doin’ here already?” Atsumu lifts an eyebrows.

“Stretching.” He nods expectantly and Sakusa sighs, reaching until his hand clasps around his foot. “If I don’t loosen up appropriately before practice, I might pull something. If I pull something, I can’t play. If I can’t play—well."

Atsumu purses his lips and nods. But he’s also a known brat so he says, “ya think coach doesn’t know what he’s doin’ when it comes to warm-ups?”

“Oh fuck off, Miya. He’s fine. I just need to do things my way.” He sits up, and pulls a surgical mask out of his jacket pocket, loops a strap around one ear. “I’m sure that's a sentiment you can relate to.”

“Ouch.” He thumps his chest, invisible dagger in hand. “You wound me. Do I really seem that self centred to you?”

“Why else are you here on your own, then?”

“Oh, I’m always early. I’m kind of an extreme mornin’ person. Extremely diligent, extremely on time, extremely dedicated to my teammates—”

“Okay, I get it.” Sakusa frowns at him doubtfully.

“I’m serious, Omi!” He whines, and hates how petulant it comes out. “Also I can’t really sleep. So. Next best thing.”

Sakusa eyes him from head to toe and something acidic pulses in his veins. “You should talk to the team doctor about that.”

Atsumu huffs. “Right. Wish I’d thought of that first.”

“Whatever. I’m just trying to be helpful. If you’re not sleeping, that can really throw a wrench in it for everyone els—”

“Ugh you sound like my fuckin’ brother.”

Something complicated flashes over Sakusa’s face, too quick to interpret. He slips his headphones back over his ears, and pulls his mask up until it hovers at his chin, pinched delicately between two of his long, crooked fingers. “Are we done here?” His eyes narrow dangerously and Atsumu starts to burn.

He stands up and shoves his hands in his pockets, looking Sakusa in the eyes and hoping he cracks first. He doesn’t. “I’m watchin’ you, Omi. Just you fuckin’ wait.”

Sakusa snorts and finally glances down at where his hands are clasped between his thighs. “Great.” 

Atsumu pretends he doesn’t see the blood forming at the corner of the cuticle of his right thumb, or the matching scab on his own — he’s not looking that close. He does his own warm-ups, jogs around the court, stretches, sets the ball against the wall until his wrists stiffen. He doesn’t look at Sakusa but he feels him in the room and scratches at the back of his neck until it stings.

They don’t talk, even as the rest of the team trickles in. Bokuto bursts through the door first, and yells something stupid about a cat his saw on his bike ride over which breaks the tension a little. 

“I stopped to watch her climb up the side of a building because it was fucking wild and she was just so agile?! And that upper body strength my God. But yeah, she jumped into the awning and I guess they didn’t collapse it properly last night because it was full of water and she jumped down so fucking fast she almost landed on my head!” He laughs, big and loud. Atsumu joins in awkwardly, and finally meets Sakusa’s eyes where he’s carefully rolling his wrists backwards against the floor. 

Bokuto follows his gaze. “Ah! Omi that’s so gnarly!” He runs over without hesitation and Atsumu feels a vice clamp over his throat at the easiness of it. 

Sakusa adjusts his hands while Bokuto makes awed noises and he doesn’t understand why he’s so fucking angry about it. He picks up the ball he’d been setting, and tosses it up for a serve. It slams down precisely between the two of them and Bokuto yelps. 

“Fuck, Tsum-Tsum! A little warning next time!”

Sakusa massages his wrist and stares at him, brows drawn and unreadable. 

“Oops.” Atsumu pops the ‘p’. “I meant for that to be closer.”

Bokuto squawks. “Closer?!” And Atsumu kneels down to fix his shoelace, even though they’re always double knotted and rarely out of place.

“Precision’s the name of the game, right Bokkun?” 

Sakusa stands suddenly, and Atsumu had forgotten how intimidating and _big_ he is when he’s not curled in on himself. “I’m going to get changed.” He mutters and Bokuto waves after him.

“Can we practice blocks when you’re done? I saw you get a spike past Meian yesterday and it was fucking sick, Omi.” He laughs brightly. “I wish I could get that kind of spin on the ball!”

Sakusa nods slowly. “If it’s alright with Miya. Also, please stop calling me that.” He glances to the left of Atsumu’s ear. “Especially you.”

Atsumu bares his teeth. “No can do, Omi-Omi.” He shrugs. “I’m a creature of habit. And don’t call me Miya—it’s confusin’ when there’s the two of us.”

Sakusa pulls his mask away from his face, and there’s a cruel twist to his mouth. “That’s strange, Miya. I can only see one of you.”

The reminder stings more than it should.

—

The youth training camp in 2012 finds him bruised and fragile and without Osamu after their first real fight. The train ride into Tokyo leaves him alone with his thoughts and holding back tears for just long enough that he’s almost ready to let it out on the next person who looks at him wrong. He’s distracted and tired and thinking about happiness when he realizes he’s about to walk into the glass door of the training facility and stops in his tracks. He looks up sharply, to someone tall and familiar holding it open with his foot and refusing to make eye contact. 

“Watch where you’re going.” 

It’s the first time he hears him speak and the first time he’s glad Osamu isn’t there too. He can feel the heat rising to his face from the pit of his stomach and bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes metal. They faced off at inter-high, there’s no way he could forget about that, but it didn’t feel like _them_ in that game. When he watched the replays with Osamu and Suna he remembers thinking that they looked like giants on the screen, under those glaring lights and the shouts of the crowd. The loss hurt worse, seeing it like that. He didn’t punch a wall, or his brother, but he thought about it, and then he thought about the curve of Sakusa’s mouth after he bodied the winning spike in the fourth set. He wanted to set himself on fire instead.

They’re funnelled into the cafeteria for lunch, and orientation. He sidles up next to Kageyama because he wants to sink his claws into something, and he looks like he’d be a fun choice; he holds his chopsticks kind of funny, and is so overly polite it makes him want to scream. He ends up watching Sakusa pile 5 umeboshi on his plate at lunch and eat them all in a row without wincing or making a face and it’s so strange he almost laughs out loud just thinking about it during a practice match—especially when he notices that Sakusa hits the ball with that same look in his eyes.

He stays back as they break for dinner, methodically picking up the balls and wiping the floors. It reminds him oddly of Kita, so he joins, even though it’s out of character and he kind of wants to text his brother and his stomach is eating itself in hunger. The feeling that’s gripping his lungs and warming his palms is new and weird and he thinks back to what Osamu’d said about him being as rotten as he lets the others think and that sinks somewhere deep in his bones, where he hopes no one can find it, especially him.

“Ya know yer a lot shorter in real life.” He tosses Sakusa a ball so he can stack it back in the bin.

“Is that so—?” He narrows his eyes in the way people do when they’re trying to figure out which twin they’re talking to, but he should have remembered, and that thought rests worryingly between his ribs. He rolls his shoulders until they crack.

“Miya. The better one, obviously.” He grins, the awkward toothy one that’s a little too big for his face. “You can call me, Atsumu though. Gets confusin’ otherwise.”

Sakusa nods, but he isn’t quite looking at him and that makes him feel even more exposed. 

“What did you mean by real life?”

“Like, off the court.”

“Are we not currently on the court?” He’s still holding the ball, rotating it slowly between his big hands. His wrists move so unnaturally — he can barely peel his eyes away.

“Ugh don’t be fuckin’ dense, ya know what I mean.” Sakusa frowns in a way that tells him he definitely does not know. “Like, when we’re on the same side and there’s no one there in the stands and half the lights are off. I dunno. It just feels smaller.”

Sakusa’s hands still and he’s staring at him, disconnected and unblinking. Atsumu’s heart swells painfully like an accordion. 

“Miya, there’s something on your face.” He says it blandly and walks away before Atsumu has time to reply.

He wipes at his mouth, and his fingers come away rusty where he’s chewed his lip raw without realizing. _Stupid._ He lets out a frustrated sound and takes the nets down alone.

He lies in bed alone that night and misses the sound of someone breathing above him. He cracks a window to avoid the silence but it’s only giving him a runny nose and cold feet. He thinks about texting Osamu, but selfishly hopes he’s suffering too. He’s not sure how either one of them is supposed to be happier like this. He pulls the pillow from beneath his head, ignores the crick in his neck and hugs it close to his stomach. The breeze flutters and bites against his cheeks and he doesn’t realize he’s blinking back tears until he looks at his phone and sees a text from Osamu asking what he ate that day.

—

Atsumu doesn’t go grocery shopping after practice. Instead, he goes to Onigiri Miya and spins around on a barstool until Osamu throws a plastic cup at his head.

“Fuck! That hurt!”

“Yer scarin’ the customers, idiot.”

“What fuckin’ customers? It’s 3 o’clock. No one’s here.”

“I wonder why,” Osamu mutters as he cleans down the counter. Atsumu gets the cup and slips behind his brother to stick it in the sanitizer rack. When he turns back around, Osamu is watching him and biting at his lip in the same place where Atsumu has a perpetual sore spot. 

“What was that?”

“Nothin’.” 

They don’t say anything. 

“Actually, I was wonderin’—”

“I knew you wanted somethin’ from me! You never come here on yer own!”

“Shut up, yes I do!” He rubs his eyes and avoids looking at him.

“And I just saw you yesterday.”

“So? We shared a fuckin’ womb. I can go visit my brother every now and then.”

“But ya don’t. Unless you want somethin'.” He places a plate of rice and fish on the counter and Atsumu notices that it’s been balanced according to his personal nutrition plan and he wants to cry. Osamu faces him and nudges his foot with his own. “So, spill.”

Atsumu returns to his stool and props his chin in his hand. He stares at a napkin blowing in the draft of the air conditioner. “Ya know how you always say I’m unlikable?”

“I never say yer unlikable. Just that no one likes you.”

Atsumu fiddles his chopsticks between his fingers and stuffs a bite into his mouth. “That’s what I mean. What’s the fuckin’ difference?”

“Just cuz no one likes you doesn’t mean yer fundamentally unlikable, Tsumu. Just kinda blunt. Hard to get along with. Hard to get to know, actually. No one can ever tell what you really _mean_ when ya say anythin'. You always have this fuckin’ nasty expression on yer face even if yer smiling. It’s really annoying, honestly.”

“Wow, thanks for that. Really feelin’ better.”

“Oh, ya want a hug? A little kiss and cry? Is that what yer here for?”

“Agh, no.” He chews thoughtfully and Osamu keeps cleaning. “I’m just worried about like. What happens when I do want someone to like me. Or know me.” He inhales shakily. “And they can’t because I’m so fuckin’ unlikable and unknowable.”

Osamu’s hand stops and he stares at him with the saddest expression he's ever seen; it reminds him of when they were little and their cat broke her leg. He immediately waves his hands in front of his rapidly heating face. “Forget it, that's not what I meant. Stop lookin’ at me like that Samu! It’s fine!”

“It’s not fine ya fuckin’ lug. Yer gonna break my heart.”

“Ew, don’t say shit like that.”

“I’m bein’ serious Tsumu. You are lovable. And knowable.”

“I’m pretty sure I said ‘like’ where’d ya get ‘love’ in all this.”

Osamu pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why’re you like this?”

Atsumu grins sweetly and food falls out of his mouth. “Years of practice?”

He rolls his eyes. “I guess that checks out.” That sad frown from before settles into the lines of his face, and Atsumu hadn’t even noticed that he _had_ lines in his face and now he’s wondering if they should be having a different conversation entirely right now. “I want ya to know that when I say I’m here for ya, I mean it. Comin’ here today, talkin’ to me—” He swallows and wrings his hands in the dirty dish towel. “That’s the kinda shit I mean.”

“When did you get so soft, Samu?” He kicks his foot against the bar until his toes sting in his running shoes.

“When did you get so hard, Tsumu?” He reaches across the counter and flicks him in the forehead. “Just drop the bullshit sometimes. Let people in. Maybe that’s shit advice but—” he rubs at the back of his neck and looks to the side. “Sometimes it works out for the better. I dunno. Stop acting so embarrassed for bein’ a person.”

Atsumu smashes his forehead on the table and lets out a muffled scream. “Then why is bein’ a person so fuckin’ embarrassing!”

“Jesus. Yer down bad, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just sayin’—yer not hopeless. Just kind of a baby when it comes to feelin’ stuff.”

“I dunno what that’s even ‘sposed to mean.”

“Yer not that dense. You’ll figure it out.”

“And if I don’t?”

Osamu pauses. “Well, you’ll always have me.”

It’s not as comforting a sentiment as it used to be and Atsumu feels bile in the back of his throat. 

“So, wanna come shopping with me?” He flashes his teeth.

“Fuck no, is the list not enough? I’ve got shit to do.” He gestures at the empty restaurant. A timer beeps sourly on a rice cooker behind him. “See?” He points.

Atsumu exhales through his teeth. “Fine, fine.” The beeping continues and he chews at the inside of his cheek. 

Osamu grunts, “I’ll come by tonight and drop off some of the leftovers but I am _not_ staying and it’s the _last_ time, ya hear me?”

Atsumu smiles at him wickedly and Osamu points a finger between his eyes. “Follow yer meal plan! I swear to God, what would you do without me?”

“I dunno.” 

He feels lightheaded and sick with honesty. Osamu slides a sweet plum across the table and he pops it in his mouth. It sits heavy against his tongue and he holds the pit between his teeth.


	3. you're too far away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Here's the best part, distilled for you_   
>  _But you want what I can't give to you_

Their mom bought them each a set of collapsible shopping bags when they first moved out and Atsumu rarely uses them—because he rarely goes shopping. It’s loud and he always gets distracted and never actually buys what he’s supposed to which usually just makes the entire ordeal even more unbearable. Osamu does a fridge check most times he comes over to make sure he’s “nourished” and the gesture always brings up a complicated sense of smallness. He can’t exactly complain about it, ( _what if one day he decides he’s had_ e _nough_ ) but the judgment is exhausting, and now Osamu leaves him these _lists_ so he figures he has to put in at least a little effort. 

There’s a shop exactly between the restaurant and the training centre that he likes because it’s small and there’s a cat who sleeps in the back corner on a stack of rice bags. Sometimes he feeds her scraps of jerky on his way out and she purrs into his hand.

The bell above the door sounds and the cashier raises a hand in return without looking up from her crossword puzzle. He exhales. It’s still a bit early to be crowded with office workers and he’s missed the lunch rush. There’s a box of oranges at the front which aren’t on the list, but he picks one up and holds it neatly in the palm of his hand. When he finally glances up, he realizes he’s being stared at.

“Omi-Omi!” He shouts, startled. Sakusa flinches at the sound and turns around to face the shelves. Atsumu rushes to the back and stops short, remembering yesterday, and maintains a careful distance. “Fancy seein’ you here.”

“Are you really that shocked?”

Atsumu shrugs. “I dunno. I just assumed you’d be home by now.”

Sakusa hums, and shifts his basket to his other hand. “I had to meet with the medical staff after practice.” He meets Atsumu’s eyes for a second. “Routine stuff. Don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

“Okay.”

Atsumu crumples the list in his fist and that gets Sakusa attention. 

“What’s that?”

“Grocery list. Dunno about you,” he nods pointedly at the packet of sour plum candies and hot chocolate in Sakusa’s basket, “but I follow the meal-plan.” It’s petty, and only half true, but the childish urge to be better than him tugs at his nerves. He tears the corner of the list and tries not to feel too guilty about the fact that he’s barely looked at it yet.

“I didn’t ask, Miya.” 

“Well, I’m just sayin’.”

Sakusa huffs and Atsumu stares at the side of his face. It’s hard to see under the mask, but his jaw is sharp, and he knows that his skin is clear, and he wonders what it feels like against his palm if he slapped him or held him—he’s not sure which one he wants more and just the thought of it hurts his teeth. He’s about to open his mouth again, when he’s interrupted by a soft sound at their feet. The cat emerges from beneath a shelf and nudges against Sakusa’s leg with a little chirp and his eyes immediately soften. He squats down to her level and removes one of his gloves so she can sniff his hand, and he scratches lightly behind her ears.

“Hey, kitty,” he murmurs softly and Atsumu is speechless.

“I can’t believe this.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and angles it to get a shot of the both of them. It’s kind of absurd. Sakusa is a particularly large human and this is a particularly tiny cat and somehow they kind of suit each other. She has long, black fur and little spots on her forehead that almost match his moles. Atsumu’s pulse beats against his throat, and he lets out a shaky laugh that he hopes sounds at least a little mean. “I’m sendin’ this to the whole team.”

Sakusa snorts. “Go ahead. I don’t care.” She purrs louder and tries to climb onto his knee with her front paws. He clicks his tongue and she meows again. “It’s a cute cat.”

“Well, this has taken quite a turn.” He hooks his basket over his elbow, and smirks down at them. “I gotta say, Omi, I’m surprised.”

“What did you think I was going to do? Kick it?” He stands then, and brushes his hands on his pants before pulling out a packet of wet wipes and methodically cleaning each finger. “I am human, Miya. Although I do wonder about you sometimes.”

Atsumu makes a rude face. The cat’s tail brushes against his bare leg and he reaches down to stroke it, fur soft against his fingers. When he straightens to his full height, Sakusa offers the wipes wordlessly and he takes one. 

“I like cats.” Atsumu shoves the used wipe in his pocket. “We used to have on when we were kids. It’s why I come here. I bring her snacks sometimes.”

Sakusa nods, and there’s a mildly amused look in his eyes. Maybe. It’s difficult to tell with the mask, and the eyebrows.

“Ya know, yer really hard to read, Omi.”

“Maybe you’re just illiterate.”

That surprises a laugh out of him. “Hey, that was funny!”

“I told you, I am human.”

“I can actually read, though. Just so we’re clear.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I must say, Miya, I’m surprised.” There’s a snarky lilt to his voice, and Atsumu’s stomach flips. “Although, I haven’t seen you even try to read that list.” He gestures to the piece of paper that is currently being shredded in his hands.

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” he groans, and his bag slips off his shoulder as he rubs at his eyes. The list is organized by aisle, specific to this grocery store, because Osamu knows him too well.

“Don’t touch your eyes, like that.” He wrinkles his nose. “It’s gross and you’ll get wrinkles.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Atsumu picks at his thumb and doesn’t know what else to say. He stares at an older woman comparing two bottles of mirin in the next isle over and worries his lip.

“Hey Omi—”

“If you really can’t—”

They stare at each other stiffly and Atsumu clears his throat. “Go on, then.”

Sakusa adjusts his mask around one of his ears. “If you’re really struggling to sleep that might be why it feels so overwhelming to do simple tasks like this.”

Atsumu gawks. “Who said anythin’ about bein’ overwhelmed! Or doin’ simple stuff!”

Sakusa shrugs. “Just a hunch. You can tell me if I’m overstepping.”

He can feel the crease between his eyebrows deepen with his frown and he wonders if that’ll leave wrinkles too. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“Fine.” Sakusa pulls at one of his gloves and sighs. He reaches behind Atsumu’s head—his arm does not touch him, doesn’t even come close—and grabs a box, holding it out to him. “Drink this before bed. It’ll help.”

Atsumu takes it and examines the picture of a tiny bear in a dressing gown, dozing in an armchair. It’s disarmingly sweet, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say, but he knows that whatever leaves his mouth next will be hateful in a way he doesn’t really mean.

“Or don’t. I don’t care.”

He glances back up at Sakusa who is pointedly looking away and fiddling with a loose thread at the cuff of his jacket. The uncertainty pulls at his nerves and he chews at the inside of his cheek. “Uh. Thanks.”

Sakusa nods. “See you at practice, Miya.” He walks back down the aisle and glances over his shoulder once with an unreadable expression and quickly looks away. Atsumu stares dumbly as he pays for his food, loading each item carefully into a cloth tote with a picture of an egg on the side. His brain feels heavy in his skull. 

Something soft brushes against his ankle, snapping his attention away from Sakusa’s broad back and the hair curling at the nape of his bare neck. He drops the tea into his basket, and scoops the cat into his arms. She blinks at him and butts her face against his chin. “What the fuck are we ‘sposed to do with _that_ , huh?” She sinks her claws into his arm and he doesn’t flinch.

He follows the list in a haze, and adds a small bottle of orange scented hand sanitizer at the last minute. He clips it to the side of his gym bag and flushes deeply as if the cashier has seen right through him. The beeping of the barcode scanning makes him wince. 

When he gets home he arranges the produce neatly in his fridge and sends Osamu a picture. He hesitates over the shots of Sakusa and the cat with his thumb before locking his phone and tossing it onto the couch. He sets the rice cooker and while it cooks, takes a shower so hot that he can’t tell if the heat is coming from his own body or the steam. The tea sits on the counter unopened and Osamu eyes it blankly when he drops off the extra food, and doesn’t comment. He leaves two more cans of iced tea in the fridge and locks the door behind himself. 

It rains that night, and he lies on the couch with his comforter and an open window. It smells like metal and the tang sticks at the back of his throat. He grits his teeth and, when the rain finally lets up close to dawn, falls asleep.

—

When they were babies, Atsumu left the hospital first. They were born early, a little too fresh, and Osamu had to stay in the incubator until his lungs cleared up. Atsumu screamed for three days and didn’t sleep. It’s become something of a family legend; the kind you make a game of looking back on and exaggerating. Their grandma ruffles his hair and complains about the sleepless nights, blames her hearing aids on his endless sobbing with a gentle wink and a pinch of his cheek. Osamu always stares at him quietly and doesn’t comment. They were together for so long and then they were suddenly, painfully alone. He wonders sometimes, as he lies awake to the sound of his own breath and the beating of his own heart, if that’s when it all went sour and they lost the ability to feel whole on their own. 

He asked Osamu once, in the hotel after they lost at nationals second year, and he just squeezed his hand and didn’t respond. Sometimes he calls him and they fall asleep together, breathing closely into the phone line. They don’t talk about it, but he imagines this is how it felt on their fourth night on Earth when their mom tucked Osamu into the bassinet next to him and he clasped his hand and finally went quiet. He’s not sure if he ever really let go.

—

The first few weeks of practices end quickly and Atsumu feels settled in the new routine. Osamu still texts him to ask what’s for dinner, he stays late with Bokuto every other day, he goes to yoga—he still doesn’t sleep. But every morning he throws tosses against the wall with his back to Sakusa and pretends like it’s something familiar. He’s uneasy in the realization that it might be. 

On the second Friday, he finds Sakusa mask-less for the first time since early that first week and he feels something unravel under his heart. They haven’t really talked since the grocery store, and Atsumu still isn’t sure what to make of any of it but he feels something tug him a little closer to the opposite end of the gym than usual. _There’s a usual,_ he thinks, and pinches his thigh. He grabs a ball and stands above Sakusa where he’s sitting on an exercise mat with the logo of what he assumes is his college team. They lock eyes, and he bounces the ball hard between his own feet. 

“I haven’t tried the tea.”

“Okay.”

“I just don’t think it’ll work for me. I don’t like that hippie bullshit.” That’s a complete lie, but Sakusa never has to see the salt lamp next to his bed.

“It’s not exactly ‘hippie bullshit.’” He makes air quotes with his fingers and it really doesn’t suit him in a horribly endearing way, like a great dane trying to sit in an armchair. “It’s just about creating a ritual to aid in relaxation. Also don’t you do yoga? I think I saw a crystal in your locker.” 

Atsumu flushes. “Well, I’m not doing that.”

“That’s fine, Miya. I honestly don’t care.” He reaches his arms behind his back and his shoulders look almost loose at the joints. “But I do hope you can figure something else out. You look distracted.”

Atsumu purses his lips. “I’ll work on it.”

Sakusa rolls his neck to either side and Atsumu pointedly doesn’t think about sinking his teeth into the pulse point. _Stop being a fucking weirdo,_ he thinks and cracks his thumbs.

“Hey, Omi?”

Sakusa inclines his head and looks at him, bored. Even without the mask he can’t figure out what kind of expression that is.

“So, usually the last Friday before the season starts a few of us go out and get dinner at my brother’s restaurant. Sometimes some guys from other teams join us. It’s a fuckin’ hoot.” He puts his tongue to a sore spot on his lip and braces himself for the sting of it. “Wanna come with?”

Sakusa stares at him, and blinks a few times. He lets out a short breath and says, “Okay.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen, and he settles his face into a neutral, inoffensive grin that and his heart quivers. Sakusa’s eyes carefully trace the changes as he nods and clicks his tongue. “Cool.” He throws a ball into the air and spikes it into the ceiling to ward off a shiver.

He’s about to say something mean, or humiliating when Bokuto bursts through the door and shouts, “I can't wait for tonight, Tsum-Tsum!” Before he notices Sakusa stretched out in the corner and clamps his mouth shut, offering him an apologetic grimace.

Atsumu chuckles and throws an arm around his shoulder. “It’s okay dude, Omi’s comin’ with. Gonna let loose right, Omi-Omi?”

Sakusa snorts. “Right.”

Bokuto gives him a puzzled but delighted look. “O-oh? Fuck yeah, Omi! Team bonding! Ah! You invited Hinata, too, yeah?” Atsumu tunes him out, and hums whenever he feels it’s appropriate. Sakusa is bent in half, forehead touching the ground with the smallest hint of a dimple at the corner of his mouth where the tip of his thumb would fit perfectly. 

“Omi, you’re gonna love Mya-Sam, honestly you kind of remind me of him sometimes.” Bokuto laughs and stage whispers. “Maybe because he’s the better twin.”

Atsumu chucks a ball at his head and whines, “you’re just sayin’ that cuz he feeds ya!”

“Maybe if you learn to cook you can reclaim your throne!”

Sakusa makes a soft sound that Atsumu would swear is a laugh if he weren’t afraid to look. The back of his neck heats with the urge to hit something so he kicks Bokuto in the back of the knees, and cackles at the pained sound he makes.

“Enough fuckin’ around, let’s hit some tosses. Omi, wanna receive?” But Sakusa’s already getting into position, shuffling from foot to foot, and flexing the muscles in his calves. Atsumu swallows, and hits the ball as hard as he can.

—

“Make sure you have umeboshi.”

“Huh? Since when do you like umeboshi?”

“Since always. Of course.”

“That’s incorrect.”

“Kita used to get them for me when I was sick!” Atsumu adjusts his phone in the crook of his shoulder as he tapes up a cut on his thumb. “Look, just do it, Samu.”

“Fine. Freak.”

“Dick.”

“How many is it again?”

Atsumu pauses and counts on his fingers. “Fifteen? Maybe? I dunno. Might be a few plus ones.” Osamu swears and Atsumu grins. “Heard Sunarin is makin’ an appearance.”

“I know.”

“Do ya now?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“Stop doin’ that.”

“Ya can’t even see me Samu!”

“Don’t care. I can feel it. Fuck you.” He pauses and sighs. “Just don’t be fuckin’ weird. Have a lil tact, will ya?”

“Hm. Not really in my nature.”

“Tsumu.” Osamu sounds tired and he almost feels bad. “Please.”

Atsumu scratches at the bandage where it’s not completely sticking to the pad of his thumb. “Fine. But you owe me.”

“What the fuck, no. Who’s the one makin’ all yer friends dinner, dipshit?

“Ya owe me for the business exposure! And makin’ ‘em all like you more than me.” He spits it out a little too honestly and winces at Osamu’s silence on the other line. “That was a joke.”

“Sure.”

“I swear.”

“Jokes are usually funny.”

“Ha ha.” It’s laughably unconvincing.

“Don’t worry about tonight, Tsumu. They do like you, as long as yer not a total shit-head. They wouldn’t come otherwise. My food ain’t that good.”

“Oh fuck off, Samu. Humility doesn’t suit ya.”

“Yer right my food is that good. They still like you, though.”

Atsumu stares at himself in the mirror, the line between his eyebrows is deepening a bit more and he thinks about what Sakusa said about wrinkles and tries to smooth it with his own thumb.

“Just relax.”

“Same goes for you, Samu. Ya get all flustered when Sunarin’s there. I don’t want ya to break another glass and end up in Urgent Care like last time.” He smiles, mean.

“Shut. Up. Tsumu.”

“You shut up. I’ll see ya soon. Don't forget the plums!”

“Fuck you. I love you.” The line goes dead. He sets the phone down on the bathroom counter, and muffles a scream into his palms. _Such a fucking sap._ The phone vibrates twice, and almost falls in the sink before he reaches out to catch it.

**Samu:** i got extra tuna too

**Samu:** also, please hydrate before u leave. i left a gatorade in ur fridge

He clenches his teeth before the attention starts to feel good. He’s about to type out a reply, when a notification drops down.

**Omi-Omi:** I’m not sure if you mentioned, but can I bring someone?

His heart stutters and a bitter taste settles at the back of his mouth. He rolls it around, while his vision swirls at the edges. His fingers hover over the keyboard.

**Me:** sure

He quickly hits send, stuffs the phone in his pocket. He does the breathing exercises like they do after yoga class, trying to release the sickening clench gripping at his stomach, but he can’t stop thinking about Sakusa’s tea on his counter, and the relaxation routines and the way he let a cat rug against his leg but hardly lets Atsumu look at him. The memory is like a rock pushing at the front of his skull. He presses his cold fingers against the delicate skin or his eyelids, hard, until he can’t see his own thoughts swirling in front of him. _Someone._ He releases his fingers and stares at the raw skin reflected back him. 

“Fuck _._ ” 

He throws his slipper at the wall, gets in the shower and scrubs at his chest until his skin feels like it belongs to someone else. He puts on cologne before he leaves, and the gatorade remains untouched in the back of his fridge beside a pack of rotting plums with only one missing from the pack.

—

Suna and Osamu started hanging out more by the end of their first year of high school and Atsumu used it as an excuse to get mean. They’d never really sought approval from anyone except their grandma, or Aran and Kita, but that was juvenile and competitive and less like he was being displaced. Seeing Osamu whispering in Suna’s ear instead of his reopened a deep wound behind his heart.

He’s not sure he’d even considered a life where his brother wasn’t his permanent partner, where they lived separately and somehow remained integral to each other. It scared him, and he held himself back. He often ate lunch alone, or with Kita if he was feeling particularly generous, and he wondered how you were supposed to know how to pair off in the world with people who couldn’t read your every thought written in the scabs on your knees.

When he sees Sakusa sitting alone on the second day with a bandage on the back of his hand he almost wonders if that was his fault too. It’s a stupid thought. They’ve barely talked and he doesn’t know him, but the awareness of him boils in his stomach and, as grotesque as it feels, it’s one of the first times he’s been wary of his brother knowing what he’s thinking. Sakusa sneezes, and pulls a mask up over his face. He has dark circles under his eyes and he’s staring at a ceiling fan that’s annoyingly off centre above the drink station. Atsumu finds a disgusting comfort in the knowledge that he’s not the only one here who doesn’t know how to sit in their own skin and look like a person.


	4. your hands are gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _your hands are gravity, while my hands are tied_

Atsumu gets on the train with the plan to be early, but slips out the closing doors at the last minute when the sight of an elderly couple holding hands makes his intestines twist strangely. It’s a brisk evening, but he likes the rush. It’s about a 40 minute walk from his apartment, but he overshoots by a few blocks to go to the grocery store and stare at the selection of unwanted flowers outside, wilting in their brown, paper wrapping. Sometimes, when he’s especially restless in the evenings, he stops by here and grabs the last few bouquets. He trims the ends, places them in a vase and watches them die in his kitchen. 

He examines one of the gnarliest ones, yellow flowers wet and almost rotting, and he smiles to himself imagining the look on Osamu’s face when he rolls in fashionably late to his own party with the worst gift he could manage. He almost doesn’t notice the slowing footsteps and fading voices behind him until someone clears their throat in a way that almost sounds like his name.

“Miya? Hello?” He freezes. “What are you doing here? Did you not tell us to be there by 7?”

“Ha, yeah, but look who’s talkin’ Omi.” He spits it out and thinks about the four feet shuffling behind him. _Can I bring someone._

“Ah, Kiyoomi, I really gotta take a leak, do you mind if I just run ahead?” Atsumu bristles at the use of his first name and kicks himself mentally for even caring.

“Mm. Sure. I’ll catch up with you later.”

_Someone_ rushes away and Atsumu doesn’t look back over his shoulder until he’s sure he won’t be able to see who it is.

“It’s kinda shit manners to bring a plus-one when none was bein’ offered.” He stands up and brushes his hands on his pants. “Kinda presumptuous.”

He turns around to face Sakusa and his tongue is suddenly huge in his mouth. Sakusa looks good. Really good. His hair is soft, and tousled in the breeze and his coat fits his shoulders so well. He looks tall, and assured in the same way that his uniform made him look on the court in high school. A tote bag hangs loose and relaxed in a black, gloved hand. He bows his head slightly. “I apologize for the inconvenience. I had to talk to someone after practice, and didn’t catch you. I really don’t mean to impose.”

Astumu waves a hand at him. “It’s fine. Lesson for next time.”

“You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“Gettin’ a host gift.” He picks up a particularly pathetic bundle of flowers. “Unlike some of us, I have tact and know how to be a fuckin’ good guest.”

“Is that so.” He scratches behind his ear, and glances to the side. “Hurry up and pay, then. We’re already late, and I wouldn’t want us both to appear lacking in tact.”

Atsumu flicks the bouquet in his hand and makes sure that the water dripping off hits Sakusa’s shoes. He doesn’t wait for a reaction.

The cashier gives him an odd look as the flowers ooze onto the counter, and doesn’t make him pay for them. Humiliated, he grabs a random pack of candy off the rack, throws her a few bills, and darts away before she can give him his change. His underarms are damp, and the flowers slowly soak his pant leg.

Sakusa is reading something on his phone and looks up when Atsumu stumbles over the doorway. “Those are my favourite.” he points at the packet in his hand. 

_Umeboshi._ He feels fucking stupid. He rips it open and dumps the whole thing in his mouth, and doubles over, gagging at the sourness.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“ _Fuck!_ ”

“Seriously? Are you five?”

Atsumu shakes his head and spits them out in the gutter while Sakusa maintains his distance. There’s a crease between his eyebrows, and somehow it makes Atsumu feel a bit better knowing they’re bodies are both vying against them.

“That was fuckin’ disgusting. What’s the matter with you, Omi?”

“Me?!” He crosses his arms. “Typically you’d eat them one at a time and not all in one go like a fucking cretin.”

His pout is so genuine and obvious, even under the face-mask, that Atsumu can’t help but burst out laughing until he can’t breathe. Sakusa makes a pained sound, but the tension seems to have eased.

“God, you are a child.” He starts walking away without warning or waiting. Atsumu has to jog to catch up and when he does, the stitch digging into his side feels well earned. 

He's sweaty and flustered when they get to the restaurant while Sakusa is, unfortunately, beautiful. His hair is damp at the temples, but it just makes it curl sweetly over his ears. Atsumu’s red faced and deflated, like a dumb puppy. 

“After you,” he gestures and props the door open. Mostly everyone’s arrived but he doesn’t scan their faces.

He slips away to the back kitchen where Osamu is sweaty and busy and Suna is squatting on a stepping stool, staring at his back and looking bored. He inclines his head slightly as Atsumu lets the door bang shut behind him.

“Sunarin.”

“Astumu.”

“Samu, I brought you a gift!” He holds the flowers above his head like a trophy, but the running and the mishandling hasn’t done them many favours and a few petals fall on the ground.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake Tsumu that’s a fuckin’ health and safety hazard throw them in the trash.” Suna hides a laugh behind his hand, and snaps a photo. 

“Come on, Samu, I’m just tryna be nice!”

“Go be nice away from my kitchen, please and thank you.” He points a spatula at a tray of appetizers and says, “take that on yer way out, will ya?”

The tray isn’t that heavy, but Atsumu grunts like it is and his brother gives him the finger without turning around. 

“Yer never gonna get laid if you keep bein’ such a tyrant in the kitchen—woah.” His shoulder goes through thin air where the door should be, and he looks up to find a familiar imposition holding it open with his foot. He blinks dumbly, before spitting into a painful grin. “Omi! Can ya fuckin’ read? I could have sworn that sign says ‘staff only’ and I’ve never seen ya on payroll.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen the payroll.” Suna sounds amused, which is never a good sign. 

“So, didja need something?” He huffs, adjusting the tray in his hands.

Sakusa holds up the tote bag. “Host gift.” He glances at the flowers sitting at the top of the compost bin. “Unlike some of us, I have tact.” He murmurs. Atsumu’s ears burn, and he grits his teeth, almost hoping it’ll break a piece off so he can spit it back in his face.

“Well, our gracious fuckin’ host would be pleased to make yer acquaintance.” Their shoulders don’t brush, but he comes as close as he can and shivers. 

“Atsumu!” Hinata notices him first, and waves excitedly with both arms. Atsumu sticks his tongue out in concentration and winks at him as he sets the tray down on a table.

“Hey, hey fuckers dinner is served.” He slides a hand into Hinata’s hair and tousles it roughly. He laughs brightly and slips an arm around Atsumu’s waist, preening at the attention.

“We were wondering where you were! You’re usually super early to everything.”

Atsumu shrugs. “Got held up.” His eyes dart to the kitchen door and he bites his lip at the lack of movement. “Anyone need a drink?”

He drinks, he stares at the kitchen, and he leans on Hinata as he waits. Thinking of them alone together makes him hyper aware of the sweat in the crook of his elbow where it touches the back of Hinata’s neck and how scary he looks when he cries.

Four drinks later, Sakusa and Suna emerge with the presumed _someone_ who has his hand on Sakusa’s shoulder and who Atsumu recognizes as the libero from Itachiyama and he thinks, _of fucking course._ He takes another shot, and growls with it.

“You need to slow down a bit, man!” Bokuto grips the back of his neck and he laughs close to his ear. It rumbles down the length of his spine and pools strangely in the pit of his stomach. He closes his eyes and imagines Sakusa’s long, flat hands touching him instead. 

“I’m fine, Bokkun.” He shrugs him off and sways, almost spilling the beer that someone has pressed into his hand. “Mm. Maybe I need some air.”

"Yeah, alright. Come right back though, Tsumu! I wanna see if Hinata can stand on my shoulders."

"No, you will certainly not be doing that." It sounds absolutely deadly, coming out of Sakusa's mouth, but Bokuto and Hinata fall over each other laughing. 

Something sizzles along the lines of his back as he tries to sneak out, like he's being watched or studied. He slips through the kitchen door, through an emergency exit where he slides down the wall and sits in a dry spot by the dumpster. His head tucks neatly between his knees and it feels like he’s mourning something, or _someone_ and he knows what it is but he doesn’t know how to say it without gnashing his teeth and trying to draw blood. The door squeaks open at the hinges and he sighs. “Not now Samu.”

“Your brother is busy. He sent me instead.”

Atsumu freezes. “Why you?”

“That’s what I said, too.”

He huffs a laugh and raises his head to meets Sakusa’s gaze. It’s deliberately non-emotive, but only lasts a moment before he’s wrinkling his nose at the dumpster, at the few cans scattered underneath it, and specifically the puddle at his feet where Atsumu put his drink.

“Fuck off, Omi. ‘m not in the mood. Get back to yer _someone._ ”

“He can wait.”  Sakusa tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat impassively, and continues staring at the open beer between Atsumu’s shoes. “Why did you invite me tonight?”

Atsumu shrugs. “I dunno. To see ya suffer maybe.”

“How kind of you.”

Atsumu bites his lip. “Or maybe just to see you. I don’t know.”

Sakusa stills, brow furrowed. 

“Sorry. That was too honest.” The words taste bad and feel worse. He grips his knees tight in his palms and notices a soft pulse in Sakusa’s forehead when he swallows. “I’m drunk.”

His nose twitches underneath his mask. “Do you want something from me, Miya?”

_Yes._ Atsumu shakes his head and presses his thumb, hard, into the bone under his eye. “Nah. It’s fine. I’ll talk to ya later, Omi. Have a good night.”

Sakusa hesitates, hand halfway out of his pocket, but he slides it back. “If you’re sure.”

Each step of Sakusa’s shoes against the damp pavement feels like a strike to the back of his skull, and he pushes his head into the brick wall behind him to dull it. He returns to the party, sobered, and doesn’t look at Sakusa for the rest of the night but his lips tingle whenever he closes them over the lip of a bottle.

**—**

He stays late and tells Osamu he’ll help clean up but it’s a thin excuse to avoid saying goodbye to anyone and to sit on the stainless steel counters, dissolving bits of rice on his tongue until it tastes like glue. Osamu slams a pan next to him, and he feels the vibration in his toes.

“What the fuck, Samu?!”

“What the fuck is yer problem tonight. What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” He raises the pan again and Atsumu reaches for his wrist, but his reflexes are slower and hazy. “Okay, maybe I’m a little tired.”

“I thought you were sleepin’ better.” Atsumu doesn’t say anything. “Tsumu if this is about—” 

“About what?” He glares. “Say it.”

Osamu lowers the pan at his side. “I noticed Sakusa Kiyoomi ate all the umeboshi.”

Atsumu flinches. 

“I just want ya to talk to me.”

“There’s nothin’ to say.”

“That’s a fuckin’ lie.”

Atsumu’s chest tightens. “This is gonna sound crazy. But do you ever feel like yer hands are on backwards? And no matter what ya do, you just can’t—” He takes a shaky breath and Osamu waits, taps the pan nervously against his thigh. “He asked if he could bring someone.”

“Okay. So?”

“And he did, Samu.”

“I fail to see an issue here.”

Atsumu gapes. “There’s _someone._ He touched him. He fuckin’ winces when ever I even think about standin’ an inch away from him how the fuck am I supposed to—” 

“Tsumu. I love ya, but you've gotta ease off on the drama. It’s gettin’ fucking old.”

He blinks and Osamu sighs.

“Just fuckin’ talk to him. And wash this.” He passes him a pot and he holds it in his lap, staring at the food stuck to the bottom, and thinks about when they used to do dishes for their grandma and look for secrets in every smudge. 

They finish cleaning up and Osamu knocks their shoulders together, gently. “Ya know Komori Motoya is his cousin, right?”

“What.”

“Yeah, the guy he brought? Plays with Suna. He talks about him all the time. Really nice guy.”

Atsumu punches him in the shoulder and laughs too hysterically to come across as amused. “You fuckin’ scrub! Ya could have mentioned that a lil earlier, don’t you think?!”

“Why? It’s fun watchin’ you sweat.” Osamu grins. “Besides, I think he likes you too. He kept starin’ when you were draped all over the little guy. And he apologized on yer behalf for the flowers.”

Atsumu groans into his hands. “Don’t even say that. I’m gonna die.”

“No yer not. Anyways, I tried to set you up for a little ‘heart to heart’ but you told him to fuck off and for some reason, he listened. Not my problem anymore.”

“Oh my God. I fucking hate you.”

Osamu shrugs. “Not my fault you can’t let yerself be happy. I thought ya were gonna actually try and win that bet.”

It’s like a bucket of ice water. He shoves at Osamu, but can’t keep the smile from cracking at the corners of his face. “Oh fuck off. It’s all cumulative. I still got time.”

“Wow, big word.” His grin softens. "He brought me a nice bottle of Soju, as a gift. For what it's worth, ya could do a lot worse.”

Atsumu stomps on his foot.

He leaves the restaurant as dawn is peaking out at the corners of the street and everything smells wet and bright. He pulls out his phone, and sends Sakusa the picture from the grocery store. He hesitates, then adds:

**Me:** wanna grab coffee tomorrow?

**Omi-Omi:** Okay.

**—**

Something between them breaks open after that. Sakusa shows Atsumu how to properly loosen his hamstrings before practice, and Atsumu washes his hands before entering and leaving the gym now. Bokuto raises an eyebrow comically high the first time he sees, and Atsumu kicks him hard in the back which earns him 50 push-ups. 

Sakusa smirks at him, smug, and he gives him the finger behind his back. Somehow, it makes his grin grow wider and he flushes with an embarrassing sort of pleasure.

“Wipe that smile off your face, Miya, or you’re doing 50 more,” Meian barks and the rest of the team laughs at the strangled sound Atsumu makes in response.

Their first game, Atsumu stands beside Sakusa in the starting line up and leans in as close as he dares. “Betcha I can get the first service ace.” Something sparkles in Sakusa’s eyes and he clenches a fist at his chest. His head and chest fill with something that’s been missing for a long, long time and his hands are almost weak with it.

Atsumu nails a spike serve into the back corner like a gunshot. When he turns to look at Sakusa with a vicious smile, he’s already grinning wider than he’s ever seen and he stops short, heart wedged firmly in his throat, because the determination looks somehow soft on him.

“Good work, Miya. But I’ve got the next one.”

“Oh, yer fucking on, Omi.” Bokuto slaps him on the ass with a whoop and they get back in position. He takes a breath, throws the ball high, and flies.

Sakusa gets the winning hit from a low set after an achingly long volley and they both explode alongside the crowd. Something floods Atsumu’s body, kind of like adrenaline, but more intimate, and when he looks at Sakusa they scream into each other's faces in pure joy and he thinks, _oh yeah, that’s what it’s supposed to be like._

They cool down together, away from the others and Atsumu can’t quite calm his heart or wipe the beam off his face. Sakusa keeps looking at him and huffing out tiny puffs of laughter and it’s forcing something up from the depths of Atsumu’s lungs.

“It hasn’t felt that good in a while.” 

“What hasn’t?”

“Winning.” He nudges the toe of Sakusa’s shoe with his own and holds his breath. “We make a good pair, Omi-Omi.”

“I told you to stop calling me that.” It lacks bite and the apples of his cheeks are slightly pinker than they were during the game. He leans down until his forehead touches the ground between his legs, and Atsumu admires the long line of his spine and the muscles flexing along his arms. When he finally looks away, Bokuto is icing his shoulder and staring at them with an evil glint in his eyes. He mirrors Sakusa and hides his face under a sweat towel. 

That night, he opens the box of tea. It smells gentle, like lavender and citrus and reminds him of Sakusa, and he lets the heat of the mug sear his palms while he looks out the open window. He wonders if Sakusa’s doing the same thing right now, following the routine. He sleeps better than he can ever remember. 

He doesn’t tell Sakusa about it, but when he arrives at practice the next day they stare at each other longer than usual and he says, “you look better.” 

“You been checkin’ me out, Omi? Like what ya see?”

Sakusa shrugs. “Maybe I am. So what?"

His vision whites out and he snaps his mouth shut. _He doesn't mean it like that._ Sakusa lets their shoulders brush during their second water break and he realizes that he smells like lavender, too. Atsumu remains as still as he can and digs his nails into his palms until it bites.

—

The loss to Karasuno in second year flays him open in a new and unnerving way. He cries in front of Aran and Kita, and boils with humiliation bordering on a mild hysteria. Osamu is as impassive as always, but there’s a new sense of grief etched onto his face. It’s one of the few times their faith in each other has led them astray and it sits toxic in the tiny, unbridgeable space between them. 

Atsumu clasps his shoulder tightly as they walk off the court, and when he looks up at the stands, Sakusa is staring down at him looking equal parts disgusted and disinterested. His stomach flips, and he thinks about internal rotting, and what Osamu said, and wonders if Sakusa can see it.

“Hey.” Osamu touches their temples briefly. “We did good, okay? They were just better.”

“They shouldn’t have been, though.”

Osamu doesn’t reply. 

Kita buys them all dinner that night, and Atsumu sits next to him at the table and presses their knees together. He doesn’t move away, but he does smile at him, sad and sweet, and shakes his head. It’s too small of a movement for anyone else to have seen, but Atsumu’s face flushes, and he moves away. Kita leans in again until they’re shoulders are pressed tight and murmurs, “it’s okay, Atsumu.” It just makes everything cut deeper and he leaves the restaurant more lonely and vulnerable than before.

They stay and watch the rest of the tournament, and Atsumu smiles sourly when Itachiyama loses. He can sense Osamu tracing the lines of his face, trying to read him, and he feels a morbid thrill at the idea that he might be keeping something hidden. When Sakusa doesn’t shake hands with the other team, Atsumu makes a disgruntled noise at the back of his throat. “What a fuckin’ dick.”

Osamu raises an eyebrow, but nods, eyes returning to the court. “Freaky spikes, though. I dunno how his body does that.”

A tacky heat seeps into his cheeks at the thought of Sakusa's body and he watches him scratch insistently at his wrist until someone on his team touches his shoulder. He pulls his sleeves down over his hands and stares at the floor. The image of his bandaged hand at training camp sears itself into his brain and makes his heart twinge.


	5. maybe i'm afraid of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _i'll bite the hand that feeds me  
>  bite the hand that feeds me  
> bite the hand, bite the hand  
>   
> i'll bite the hand that needs me  
> bite the hand that needs me  
> bite the hand, bite the hand_

There’s a special slice of vindication and pride that pokes at his heart when he sees Hinata body each spike and glow in front of the net during the Adlers match. Sakusa’s opening service ace is okay, too. It’s not exactly his win to claim, he knows that, but it’s almost like vengeance, so he bares his teeth and savours it. Sakusa high-fives Bokuto and Hinata for the first time and while he _knows_ that’s not his victory either, it chips away at something brittle that had been held tight between them and his shoulders drop.

He finds Sakusa laying on the ground beside Hinata, limp like a dead ferret, and he nudges his thigh with his shoe, careful to only touch where he’s clothed. Sakusa rolls his head to the side to look at him and he chokes on a laugh seeing his face crushed into the floor. “Ya know, Omi,” he smirks. “Victory doesn’t really suit ya.”

Sakusa shuts his eyes and smiles. “That’s a real shame, Miya. I was hoping to build a solid routine out of crushing you.”

He snorts. “In yer fuckin’ dreams.” But his toes tingle seeing Sakusa relaxed, and happy, and comfortable in his skin. For the first time, Atsumu thinks he’d be okay with losing. 

The team all goes out afterwards to celebrate, and the bar they choose is cloyingly loud and sticky. Sakusa sticks to his side like glue, but maintains a barrier. He keeps his mask pulled down to his chin and brings his lips close to Atsumu’s ear to talk to him. The feeling of his breath against his neck pulls makes him feel high, and loose. Bokuto buys them all shots, and Atsumu tries not to notice how their fingers brush, just barely and at the tip, when they clink the comically small shot glasses together. He stares at Sakusa’s throat as he tips his head back, and lets his heart pulse tenderly against the meat of his lungs.

He discovers, delightedly, that Sakusa does know how to dance. Atsumu ignores the dance floor, even as Hinata begs him to join with embarrassing hand gestures until Meian smacks him in the forehead. He stays in the booth with Sakusa between him and the wall and they sway their heads to the beat of the music. Sakusa’s eyes slide shut and his body moves fluidly like he’s never seen before and the music pulses in his body, at his temple. 

“I didn’t know you could move like that,” he murmurs in his ear and a smile melts into place seamlessly under the colourful lights.

“I like music. Fucking sue me, Miya.”

Atsumu smirks and slides an arm along the back of the bench, around Sakusa’s shoulders. He can feel Bokuto and Hinata talking about him from across the bar and his skin prickles oddly at the imagined attention.“It’s still weird seein’ you act like a person, honestly.” Sakusa gives him a funny look. “I mean, it’s nice! I like it.” He bits his lip, considering. “It suits ya.”

Sakusa examines him with one eye closed, an amused smirk playing at his lips. “Miya, are you aware that you almost complimented me just now?”

Atsumu flushes and sinks lower in his seat. “I’m a nice guy! Come on! Don’t look at me like that, I can compliment my teammates if I want to.”

Sakusa pokes at his cheek, quick and venomous. “Aw, someone’s getting embarrassed. That’s funny. Cockiness doesn’t actually suit you.”

“Shut yer trap, Omi-Omi,” he grumbles, but he feels hot and the room is closing in and fading away in equal measures.

Sakusa laughs, truly, and deeply, and Atsumu’s never wanted to live inside a sound so badly in his entire life. It’s loathsomely sweet and vibrates at his core. When Sakusa leans his back against his arm, he holds his breath.

He doesn’t join the others, and stays relatively sober the rest of the night. Eventually, Sakusa is close to dozing on his shoulder and he has to nudge him with his elbow to get his attention. “Omi. Yer sleepin’. I think it’s time to go.”

He blinks his eyes open like a disgruntled kitten and Atsumu laughs. Sakusa scowls and pulls his mask up over his mouth. “Fuck off. I don’t drink much.”

“I can tell.”

“Ugh.” Sakusa pats around his pockets and frowns slightly, and something clicks. Atsumu pulls out the orange hand sanitizer, the one from the grocery store and offers it to him with a raised brow. Sakusa’s eyes widen slightly, and he swears his ears are a little pink. He holds out a hand and Atsumu squirts out a glob, then wipes his own hands. 

“Ya ready to go then? I’ll call a cab.” He murmurs in Sakusa’s ear and feels him shiver. He just nods. Atsumu slides out of the booth and sidles up to Meian at the bar to settle his tab.

“Hey, is everything alright over there?”

Atsumu looks over his shoulder to see Sakusa leaning against a wall by the coat check, hunched over his phone, and smiles. “Yeah. Omi’s tired, so I think we’re gonna head out.”

Meian nods and gives him an unreadably sly look. “You know, I really thought Bokuto was gonna be the one to crack him. I’m glad it was you, but I’m surprised.” Atsumu fumbles and almost drops his credit card, and Meian just laughs. “Opposites attract, I guess. You two are good for each other.” 

Atsumu scratches the back of his neck. “Well, what can I say. I love a challenge.”

Meian snorts. “You have a point.” He looks back at where Sakusa is examining his fingers, and staring out the front door. “Here, I’ll cover this. You two played well today.” Atsumu is about to protest, when Meian grabs his shoulders and spins him back around. “Get ‘im home. He looks dead on his feet, and we’ve got an early morning tomorrow.” Atsumu nods dumbly, and leaves.

The cab ride back to the hotel is mostly silent, and mostly uneventful, except that Sakusa insists on wiping down the pleather seat before he sits in it, and Atsumu has to tip extra to make up for it. He doses against the window and Atsumu is quietly pleased and dizzy with the vulnerability of it. _You two are good for each other._ He clasps his hands tight between his thighs and bites back on a grin.

—

**Samu:** good game yesterday

**Samu:** u gonna tell him?

Atsumu bites his cheek until he tastes blood and hurls his phone across the room. It immediately starts to vibrate. He screams into his pillow, then slips out of bed to retrieve it. The hotel room is cold, and stale, and leaves goose bumps on his arms. 

“What the fuck, Samu.”

“So?”

“I can’t tell him. I can’t do that.”

“Why not? Literally, why not?”

“Because! We’re friends. He trusts me. He almost fell asleep on me at the bar yesterday, and I  took him home, and he let me do that, Samu. It would be a fuckin’ violation if I told him that I actually—”

“You took him home?” 

“Shut up! Not like that.” Atsumu rubs at his eyes and feels oddly congested.

“Tsumu. Give yourself some credit, here. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“He never talks to me again. He never hits my spikes. He punches me in the face. We fail the entire team and get relegated out of the first divison. I don’t know.”

“Yer so fuckin’ stupid.”

“Oh, yer one to talk!”

His phone buzzes quickly and he pulls it away from his ear.

**Omi-Omi:** I think I’m dying.

He huffs a laugh.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Fucking nothin’ Samu, mind yer own!”

**Omi-Omi:** Wanna grab breakfast in 20?

**Me:** party too hardy omi?

**Me:** but yes pls

**Omi-Omi:** Shut up.

**Omi-Omi:** I’ll meet you outside your room

“I can hear yer fuckin’ smirk through the phone, what’s goin’ on? He texted you, didn’t he?”

“No. Yes. Shut it! Stop laughin’ at me!”

“Yer hopeless. Good luck. Have a safe train ride home.”

“Thank you. Now, fuck off.” He hangs up before he can hear his brother laughing on the other end. He lays his phone face down on his bedside table and hops in the shower, scratching at his scalp and trying not to think of Sakusa’s throat as he tipped his head back last night or the flutter of his long eyelashes as they cast shadows on his cheeks under the street lamps. _Gross,_ he thinks and spits on the shower floor.

He’s five minutes late out the door and Sakusa is standing outside his door, hands in hidden in his pockets and not touching anything.

“Mornin’ Omi-Omi! How’d ya sleep?”

“Horribly.” He grunts. “Your hair is wet.”

Atsumu shakes it like a dog and splatters Sakusa’s shoes. He hops out of the way with a wince and presses two fingers to his temple.

“Ew Miya, what the fuck.” 

“It’s clean! I just washed it.”

“Hm. We can only hope.” He turns and walks down the hallway. “Come on, I need coffee before one of us ends up losing a limb.”

Atsumu laughs. “Wow, so prickly when yer hungover!” But the image of Sakusa grabbing his arms and pulling him limb from limb won’t leave his head and he can sense his face turning red. He wonders if Osamu has ever felt like this, like he would let someone else destroy him. He shakes his head again and Sakusa bristles ahead of him where the water droplets hit his bare neck. He glares over his shoulder and Atsumu raises his hands innocently. He rolls his eyes, but as Atsumu catches up to walk next to him in stride, he swears there’s a crinkle of a smile at the corner of his eyes, and under his mask. 

—

They lose their next home game to EJP badly, in straight sets. Everything seems to go wrong, Atsumu gets benched, Bokuto loses his cool and hits 3 spikes out of bounds in a row, while Sakusa bows out early after tweaking his wrist. They sit beside each other, inches apart, but the gap feels insurmountable and almost like they’re back to the first day. Sakusa has a mask on, and he’s icing his wrists. He doesn’t shake, or show fear, really, but Atsumu knows better. The false stoicism, the twitch at his temple every time he tries to rotate his hand. He doesn’t say anything. They shake hands after the game and Suna’s tight smirk boils his guts. The showers are silent, he lets his run too hot, and the steam makes his soul feel a little less sullied. 

Sakusa is leaning against his locker when he returns to it, holding his wrist in his hand and staring at him.

“Need somethin’ Omi?”

He closes his eyes for a second, and breathes out. “Can I come over?”

Atsumu’s stomach drops. He nods, and feels extremely tiny. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I’ll drive. Meet me in the parking lot.” He slips out of the locker room and Atsumu’s head pounds where his brain is attempting to make sense of what just happened, but everyone else in the room seems to be focused lamely on their own fuck-ups, and aren’t aware that Atsumu’s entire world just shifted slightly to the left. He towels off his hair roughly and makes his scalp hurt.

Sakusa’s car is small, and clean, and he wipes his hands with an offered wet wipe before he directs him to his apartment complex. It’s the longest ten minutes of his life. His hands shake as he tries the lock in his door and he swears under his breath. 

“Here.” Sakusa holds out his hand and Atsumu looks at him, and looks at the key, and places it gently in his palm. Of course, it opens on the first try.

“How the fuck? Omi, I can never get that stupid fuckin’ lock open what did you do?”

Sakusa shrugs. “You have to twist it just so.” He mimes it with his hand and clicks his tongue. “The lock on the volleyball gym in high school was tough like that, too.”

Atsumu nods, and drops his bag by the front door. His apartment is small and neat, except for a single dirty plate in the sink that he hasn’t gotten around to washing yet. Sakusa pulls his mask off and stows it in his pocket, as his eyes trail the bare walls, the crumpled blanket on the sofa.

“Welcome to my crib,” Atsumu murmurs and Sakusa’s face remains expressionless. “Do ya want tea?”

He meets his eyes then, and something starts to soften. “Sure. Thank you.”

Atsumu fills the kettle and places it on the stove. “How’s yer wrist?”

Sakusa’s hand moves to hold it again and he frowns. “Okay, I think. I might have to ice it again later. Thank you for asking.”

“Of course, Omi. That’s what friends are for.”

Sakusa looks at the ground, and bites his lip. Atsumu’s never seen him make this face before and his blood runs cold. “Is that what we are? Friends?”

Atsumu doesn’t know how to answer that. “Why didn't you tell me Komori was your cousin? At the party?”

Sakusa’s mouth twists, confusedly. “Honestly? I’m not sure. I thought you knew, but maybe I didn’t mention it. I shouldn’t assume people know those sorts of things.” He looks to where steam is slowly spilling from the mouth of the kettle. “And maybe I wanted to see how you really felt about me. In a strange way.”

“So, it was a test?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“So you did have an idea? Before then?” Sakusa tugs on a sleeve and doesn’t look. The kettle starts to scream at them and he turns it off, pours it out into two mugs. It’s like there are ants in his veins and he can’t breathe without it coming out broken. “Seriously. Did you know?”

“Did I know?”

“Yeah. About me.”

“I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

“Come on. Yes you do.” Tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he can sense the desperation in his voice. It makes him feel gross. Sakusa looks him over and reaches out. He touches his hand, softly, barely, and Atsumu sucks in a breath so hard his teeth hurt. 

“Omi.”

“What.”

“You’re touchin’ me.”

“I’m aware.”

The featherlight brush of Sakusa’s fingertips over the meat of his palms is an electric shock. His long, calloused fingers stop at the edge of Atsumu’s sleeves and expertly knead the curves of his wrists and he wants to cry. “You’ve been touchin’ me. More often, I mean. It’s kinda nice.” His legs shake and he can’t imagine they’ll keep him standing for very much longer. Sakusa steps closer.

“I didn’t think—” he murmurs and Atsumu leans in, head nearing the crook of Sakusa’s long, white neck; his heart pulses painfully between every breath and his eyes are definitely wet.

“Can I just—” He makes a high, frustrated noise and watches a muscle twitch in Sakusa’s jaw. He tries not to think about what it would feel like under his tongue.

Sakusa is stony, silent and his grip tightens almost painfully at the sore knob of Atsumu’s right wrist. He pulls him in, chest rising, falling. 

“Okay.” He whispers and Atsumu folds. He tucks his face into the curve between his shoulder and his head. His nose hurts where it’s crushed against Sakusa’s throat but he can’t let go. Sakusa shudders, hands running up Atsumu’s arms to grip at his shoulders. They’re impossibly close; a tear slides silently down the bridge of his nose and Sakusa grunts when it touches his skin.

“I’ve wanted—” his voice cracks, and Sakusa holds him tighter in response. He’s trembling and their hearts are pounding in sync.

“Me too,” he sighs and angles his head awkwardly so his lips are almost flush with Atsumu’s ear. “Miya, you have no idea how long—” 

“Training camp. 2012.” Sakusa stills, and Astumu runs a finger down his spine. “You looked so good. _So good,_ Omi. Even in that stupid tracksuit. Every time I looked at you it fuckin’ broke my heart.” He smiles into Sakusa’s neck. “I’ve been watchin’ you, Omi. I’m always watchin’ you.”

“Well, when you put it like that it’s kind of alarming.”

Atsumu laughs. “First day. You held the door for me, made me feel itchy. I could hardly fuckin’ sleep that night.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I think I’m just crazy, honestly, it’s not that big of a deal.” 

“No, it is a big deal. Don't be stupid.” 

“It’s really not, Omi. I dunno why that sticks out. Samu wasn’t there, and I was strung out n’ weird all week and it made everything feel a lot more important than it was, I think. I really don’t expect ya to remember.” 

Sakusa makes a frustrated sound. “It’s weirder that I _don’t_.” He moves his hand to the nape of Atsumu’s neck and he shudders. “I wish I could remember more. About you. About all of it.”

“Hey, it’s okay—”

“No. It’s not okay. I was such a mess back then, Miya. I was so fucking scared of everything.” He puts his hands on Atsumu’s shoulders and pushes them apart so they’re looking eye-to-eye. Sakusa is frowning, which is expected, but the grief marked in the lines of his face is new and makes him think about the way Osamu looks at him whenever he talks about being alone. He presses his lips together until it pinches.

“You were so loud and _there_ all the time. It was awful.” 

Atsumu grimaces but Sakusa places a firm hand on the side of his neck and forces him to focus. It’s futile, really, because Atsumu would snatch at any excuse to stare and Sakusa is _touching_ _him_ with his naked hands; he’d barely looked away.

“It was awful because it made me confront everything at once, Atsumu, not because of you. Not directly, at least. Although, you were a problem.” He closes his eyes and his fingers shake as his thumb brushes gently against Atsumu’s chin. He holds his breath. 

“It was so noisy. And dirty. And it was a new routine that I couldn’t really do anything about on my own. I was so focused on not losing it that I could barely breathe. Or look. I don’t remember the door. I don’t know what I thought about you. I don’t even know if you set for me, although I feel like you didn’t. I don’t know. There’s so much I don’t know.” He exhales, frustrated but measured and he looks sick with relief. “For that, I’m sorry.”

“Idiot. Don’t apologize. We were kids; you were struggling.”

Sakusa shakes his head. “It’s not an excuse. You were too.” Atsumu presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Sakusa continues, “the itching… I think I understand. Or understood. Do you remember how I hurt my hand? The second day?” 

Atsumu nods and reaches to hold Sakusa’s tender wrist. He’s picking at his thumb with his middle finger and it’s about to bleed. It stills in Atsumu’s grasp and he thinks about how badly he wants to bring it to his lips. He doesn’t. Sakusa looks over his head, taking advantage of the few extra inches and looking extremely small. 

“You tossed me a ball as we were cleaning up. I remember that.” He rotates his hand in Atsumu’s grip until they’re holding onto each other's wrists. Atsumu strokes at Sakusa’s pulse point where it trembles underneath his skin. 

“I felt really hot for hours afterward. I couldn’t eat. I yelled at Tobio.” He takes a shaky breath. “I went to my room after dinner and washed my hands until the right one started bleeding. I don’t know why. I mean, I do now. But I didn’t then.” The corner of his mouth turns up crookedly, and a sad dimple lines the corner of his mouth. “I should have. You made me feel dirty.”

Atsumu breathes out and he can feel tears threatening to tip over. Sakusa shakily brushes his thumb under his eyes before they do. “This isn’t exactly the dirty talk I’d been fantasizing about.” He smiles weakly.

Sakusa levels him with a withering look. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” he whispers. “I’m just not sure how else to say it. I didn’t know where it was coming from before, the fear. I was so afraid all the time. I know I said that already.” 

Atsumu bites his tongue where it feels swollen in his mouth, and stares at the shadows under Sakusa’s eyelashes.

“When Motoya found me he was so mad. Or worried. Probably both. He wouldn’t even look at me the next day.” Atsumu squeezes Sakusa’s wrist harder and burns. 

“He told my mom. I see a therapist now.” He flashes a small, vulnerable smile. “It was a trigger. I didn’t connect the dots until later. My first practice with the Black Jackals, you—” he sucks his teeth and it makes a gross squelching sound. Atsumu’s heart feels too big in his chest. “You touched me. I’d been doing better. Shaking hands, hugging. Sitting on the floor. But then you touched me and I sort of,” he clears his throat. “Spiralled. I guess. That’s why you saw me at the grocery store later, with the gloves and everything. I was with the team doctor talking about accommodations.”

Atsumu flinches. “I’m sorry.”

Sakusa flicks him on the forehead. “Idiot. I got it together, didn’t I? You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Except bein’ too irresistible, amiright Omi?”

“Oh my god.” He groans. “You are absolutely tone deaf.”

Atsumu wiggles his eyebrows and Sakusa moves to flick him again, but Atsumu grabs his wrist and watches the click in his jaw as he clenches his teeth.

“I am sorry, though. I obviously didn't wanna do anythin’ that made you uncomfortable. I just don’t know how to act around you sometimes.”

“You don’t know how to act, period.” Atsumu makes a pained noise, and he pinches his hand. “It’s not about discomfort. Not really.”

Atsumu waits.

“I just wanted—so badly. I wanted you to touch me all the time. I _do_ want it. But it just feels like it’s too big.”

“Too big?”

“Unattainable. Painful. I didn’t want to risk feeling so fucking overpowered by it again, like those first few times. I tried to keep my distance with you, and then with everyone so it wouldn’t seem like it was just about you. I don’t know. I just never thought I’d get there.”

Atsumu grips his hand, laces their fingers together. “You’re here now, Omi.”

“I am.”

Atsumu’s pulse stutters. “Does that scare you?”

“Sometimes. Mostly I’m just worried it won’t be enough.”

“You’re gonna make me fuckin’ cry. This is so gross, but I can’t even imagine a world where you’d be anythin’ but more than enough for me. I’m just hopin’ I won’t be too much for _you._ I know you said you don’t remember, but I think the first thing I said to you was that you made me feel small. You're the only one that’s made me feel like that. Usually everything feels so fuckin’ uncontainable.”

“You are too much, and not particularly easy to contain, but it’s alright. It suits you.” Sakusa smiles gently; the secret dimple pokes at the corner of his mouth. “You wear it well. Ugh, I can't believe I just said that out loud.”

The light from the kitchen catches in Sakusa’s eyes; they’re glassy, and a little wet. The tea sits in matching mugs on the counter, steam rising and cooling in the air. He inhales and brings his hand up to grip tightly at Sakusa’s shoulder, leaning in until his eyes slide shut and he can feel him shudder. 

“Hey Omi.” 

“Hm?”

“Are you scared right now?”

He shakes his head and whispers, “I’m fucking terrified.”

He kisses Atsumu, hard, and it explodes behind his eyes and deep in his chest. He holds him, as soft as he can possibly bear, and melts. Sakusa makes small sounds in his mouth, pressing their lips together much too roughly, and Atsumu chuckles. “For what it’s worth, I am too.”

Sakusa lines up their noses, and opens his eyes. “Idiot,” he mumbles. Atsumu swats him on the shoulder, and smooths his hand over the same spot. They hold each other until the tea gets cold, and the sun fades behind the neighbouring buildings. 

—

Sakusa sleeps on his back silently like a corpse, and Atsumu laughs them both awake a little too early to be decent when he notices. When Sakusa runs a socked toe along the arch of his foot and tells him to shut up, it feels like both too much and not enough and he stays still, with his knees curled up towards his chest. He places an open hand close enough to where his hair fans out against the pillow that his breath presses against the soft skin of his wrist. Sakusa gently covers it with his own, tracing the lines of his palm, and that tight burning in the centre of his chest releases. He sighs and leans in to press his lips wetly to Sakusa’s pulse. 

“Gross,” he murmurs, but he stays. _He stays._

“You’re gross. I’ll make breakfast.”

“Mm. Should I trust you to use the stove unsupervised? Please don’t start a fire on our first date.” The blood in Atsumu’s body stops running and he stares at Sakusa dumbly, his face is flushed but he smiles at him, small and genuine. “Well. Go on then.” His foot slides up Atsumu’s calf and he hums pleasantly before letting the covers drop, and pressing a soft kiss to Sakusa’s covered shoulder.

The coffee grinder Osamu gave him for their birthday is loud and cranky because he dropped it the second time he tried to use it. It wheezes to life, while the shower buzzes in the next room. He sets the kettle and pulls the two mugs from the cupboard above the stove, where Sakusa had dried and stowed them after dinner last night. He holds them in his hands, in the places where Sakusa had touched and feels a private pride at the invisible connection. 

As he pushes down the French press, Sakusa emerges from the bedroom, pink and soft and wearing a sweater that was folded neatly at the top of his clean laundry bin. It’s so sweet he feels like he’s about to cry.

“I made ya coffee.” He smiles and Sakusa nods blearily, taking the cup with a chip in the handle. Atsumu watches as he fits his finger in the dip.

They maintain a careful distance as they stir and don’t share a spoon. Sakusa wrinkles his nose at the quarter carton of cow’s milk shoved in the fridge door and Atsumu itches to smooth the lines with his middle finger and thumb, so he does. Sakusa’s eyes flutter at the touch. “What’re you frownin’ about now?”

“Oat milk is consistently proven to be better for the environment and dairy absolutely wreaks havoc on your digestive system.”

“But what about my bones, Omi?”

Sakusa scowls. “Myth. There are plenty of more formidable sources of calcium besides _cow’s_ milk. That entire ethos is perpetuated by the dairy industry, in North America mostly, and — why are you laughing?”

Atsumu shakes his head and bites on a thumbnail. “You just get so worked up over the dumbest shit.”

Sakusa bristles and looks down at the mug in his hands.

“I mean, it’s nice. I like to hear it.”

Sakusa narrows his eyes and covers his face with the brim of the cup. The crooked curve at the side of his mouth suggests a smile, or that he’s horribly in pain. Perhaps it’s both. Atsumu thinks about touching his lips, and feels hot all over. He takes a big sip of his coffee and lets it scald the flesh of his tongue. Feeling brave, he hooks is chin over Sakusa’s shoulder and doesn’t move. He bristles for a moment, then slowly relaxes back into the touch. His arm slides around his waist and holds him tightly against his side. Atsumu turns his head and presses a kiss at the underside of his jaw. 

Sakusa reaches up to hold his ear gently between two fingers, and traces the ridges with a contented sound. “Mm. What was that for?”

“I just wanted to.”

Sakusa pauses for a moment, then a smile slips gently across his face and he moves his hand from his ear to cradle his head, tilting it back until he’s looking down at Atsumu with a tender, open face. “Good.” 

—

**Samu:** did u do it?

**Samu:** tsumu? what’s up?

**Samu:** oh, you did do it. dirty fucking dog.

**Samu:** congratulations i guess

**Samu:** love you bro

**Me:** fuck off

**Me:** don’t talk to me ever again

**Me:** but thanks i guess

**Me:** love u too

**Author's Note:**

> did osamu open onigiri miya in osaka because he loves his brother and wants to keep an eye on him forever, or did atsumu subtly sign with msby to be closer to osamu? who is to say!
> 
> i may or may not be on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jean_kirstan)


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